


After Hours

by casey-bee (vands88)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bromance, Cute, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Tea, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-19
Updated: 2011-09-19
Packaged: 2017-10-23 21:15:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/255041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vands88/pseuds/casey-bee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Obligatory Post-Pool fic. Also, fun Sherlock-mocking and cute bed-sharing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After Hours

**Author's Note:**

> Editor: Lavellington.

  
John only realises that they are both, by some miracle, alive when they arrive home. The past hour is blurry and in pieces like an Impressionist jigsaw – the dancing of red lights, the smell of chlorine, Sherlock flatly refusing the hospital, cold lockers against John’s back, Mycroft’s sneaky appearance, and Sherlock rushing John out on his useless legs as if the semtex actually did explode – but when the door of 221b is slammed shut, John realises that firstly they are both alive and that is very good news, and secondly, that he is in a great deal of shock, which is less good. He probably should be in hospital right now.

John’s breathing is irregular, his body is shaking, and his old war wound in his shoulder aches as if it were new. Sherlock struggles to keep John standing up; both of his arms are around his waist and John’s arm is in constant danger of falling from its loose position over Sherlock’s shoulders. And then there are the stairs; tall, and looming over the wrecked couple, mocking their exhausted beings.

“I know what you’re thinking,” gasps John, “But there’s no way I’m letting you carry me.”

Sherlock smirks.

“Can’t we just - ?

“No,” Sherlock interrupts, “We need to go upstairs.”

John groans.

-

At the top of the stairs, John falls against the wall, completely done for. Sherlock tries to catch his breath back after dragging their combined weight up the narrow steps. Sherlock doesn’t loosen his grip on his friend despite his exhaustion and John is grateful, fairly sure that his knees would buckle if it weren’t for the arms supporting him.

“Sofa?” John asks.

“No, bed.”

“But,” John gestured feebly, “More stairs.”

“No, my bed. Closer.”

“Sherlock…”

-

Despite John’s protests, he is fairly compliant in Sherlock’s arms as he moves him towards the bed. Sherlock’s bedroom is surprisingly clean and tidy, almost as sparse as John’s, and it’s comforting in its austerity. Sherlock lowers him onto the thankfully clean and double-sized bed.

“What can I do?” Sherlock asks.

“I’m in shock,” John rasps, “Need to breathe. Need heat. Need my heart…” John clutches at his chest as if willing his heart to slow purely by proximity, “You should’ve let me go to hospital.”

“I’m not risking it, John.”

“I know. Could have been,” he takes another shaky short breath, “Moriarty’s men.”

Sherlock flinches at the name. He turns back to see that John’s hand move from his heart to his previously injured shoulder.

“It’s hurting again.”

It’s not a question but John answers anyway, “Yes.”

“Right.”

John closes his eyes briefly and when he opens them Sherlock is standing on the other side of the room with a blanket in his hand and John is somehow missing his shoes.

“I don’t have a hot water bottle. My experiment on heat transferral last Tuesday –“

“Sherlock, I don’t care.” John says even as he shivers under the covers, his hand still scrunched in his t-shirt, “There’s some medicine in the top drawer next to my bed. Upstairs. Please. It’s the packet with - ”

But John can already hear Sherlock sprinting up the stairs out of sight.

“Right, sure, deduce it.” He says to the empty room.

-

When John wakes it’s in a bed that is not his own. His body aches all over, but it is a dull ache, more of a background noise than a constant annoyance.

He turns over to face Sherlock. He is sitting against the headboard on top of the covers in his silk pyjamas. And he is reading what looks suspiciously like a paperback, which might be the oddest thing about this scene, because Sherlock never reads novels for fear of replacing useful real world information with fictional ideals.

“Morning,” John coughs awkwardly.

He gets a grunt in response.

John gingerly sits up, testing his aches and pains as he does so. He leans against the headboard, mirroring Sherlock’s position and sipping at a glass of water.

John fumbles for words, fighting the feelings of embarrassment that inevitably arise from waking half naked in your flatmate’s bed. Sherlock doesn’t seem to have any such concerns; he continues to read the novel in an annoyingly casual manner. John wonders if Sherlock even understands the term “social convention”.

Deciding against commenting on the weather for fear of Sherlock‘s predictably scathing response, John opts for, “Nice to know you keep all your clutter and experiments to communal areas.”

“Hmmm?”

“Your room. It’s disturbingly clean.”

“Cupboards.” Sherlock says, as if it is a fully formed explanation, “Under the bed, in the  
chest, on top of wardrobes, in wardrobes, in shelves in wardrobes…”

John notices for the first time that although the floor around the bed is clean, the walls are lined with storage spaces bursting with papers, fabric, and strange bits of scientific equipment. He can even see a conical flask sitting defiantly by the bedside table.

“Right. So where do your clothes live?”

Sherlock, nose still in book, points his thumb at the largest and cleanest wardrobe.

“Ok.” John says, not sure what to say next. “Well, I think I’ll make a cup of tea – “

“I wouldn’t bother,” replies Sherlock, even as John is getting up, “Mrs Hudson is making you one.”

“What?”

“I told her you were ill. Which you are. You can hear her in the kitchen now. You’ll be getting burnt toast with your tea I’m afraid, she doesn’t know that I re-wired the toaster the other  
week.”

John sits on the edge of the bed, weighing the benefits of escaping from Sherlock against retreating under the duvet as his aching muscles are requesting him to do. He settles on the latter, because after all he was up half the night in dreadful tremors, and a cup of tea would be quite nice.

“Mrs Hudson came in here to check on us?” John asks.

“Yes.”

“And she saw you like that?” John indicates Sherlock lounging across the bed still hidden behind his book; Sherlock hums in assent. John sighs and prompts, “And she saw me? Like this?” He gestures to his t-shirt and boxers, “Sherlock, she’ll think – “

“Don’t worry, she already thinks that.”

This time, Sherlock does put down the book to grin widely at John as if this genuinely amuses him. Perhaps it does.

“Fantastic,” John grunts sarcastically, leaning back against the pillows.

Sherlock laughs, a strange sound, but it is contagious all the same and John finds himself giggling as Mrs Hudson bustles in with a tray full of tea and correctly deduced burnt toast. The whole encounter is so surreal that John can’t keep a smile off his face.

“Oh John, you’re up at last dear. I was so worried when I heard about the bomb scare on TV this morning, I just knew that you boys would be caught up in it. Sherlock should take better care of you. Scaring you silly like that, it’s not good for you. Here’s your tea,” Mrs Hudson tusks at Sherlock as she gives him his cup of tea and puts a sympathetic hand on John’s shoulder.

“Thank you Mrs Hudson, you didn’t need to. I’m sorry Sherlock coerced you into making a cuppa, I’m really ok.”

“Nonsense dear. Just this once mind you, next time you need taking care of – “

“I’ll do it.” Sherlock says, “Promise.”

John raises his eyebrow, wondering how long this promise will last. “Thank you Mrs Hudson, hopefully you’ll never have to see me in this state again.” What John really meant was “never have to see me in Sherlock’s bed again” but it was much the same sentiment.

“Oh, it’s no trouble,” Mrs Hudson hands John a plate of toast, “I brought you the paper.”

Sherlock tosses his book across the floor and reaches for the newspaper, immediately engrossed.

“Thank you,” John says on behalf of Sherlock as Mrs Hudson shuffles out of the bedroom with an empty tray.

To his surprise, Sherlock waves the politics, entertainment and sports sections of the newspaper questioningly in his face. John takes them and leans back against the headboard next to Sherlock who is analysing the cover story of a bomb threat at a swimming pool.

“I half expected your brother to hush it up.” John says, as he opens the book review page.

“There’s no need to. Nothing happened as far as they were concerned. They found the semtex, but the building was empty. I imagine he’ll be out of the picture for a while.”

“Right then.” John said, knowing that “Moriarty” is a name that they will avoid uttering for some time. “Hey, wait a minute, you were actually reading a bestseller earlier. Look, it’s right here. Number three.”

John points to the book printed in the newspaper. Sherlock peers over, his head temporarily resting on John’s shoulder. “So I was. An entirely accidental occurrence.” Sherlock moves back against the pillows, although a little closer to John than he had been, “I had to buy something while waiting for a suspect in a bookstore. I was there for forty-five minutes, it would have looked peculiar if I hadn’t.”

“Of course.” John says, smiling. He sips his cup of tea, browsing the rest of the literature section.

“I should call the Yard…” Sherlock says, tapping a column of print on the front page, “The zookeeper is obviously guilty.”

“Obviously.” John echoes.

Sherlock smiles into the headlines as John listens to the rustle of a shared newspaper and the chink of china teacups.  



End file.
